Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sparda believes he once remembered what it was like to breathe.

How the sun warmed his skin, how the rain softened his face and kissed his eyelids. He remembers, or thinks he remembers, how soft another’s skin felt beneath his fingers. But those years are long gone, aren’t they?

He doesn’t remember where he is now. Or why, or who brought him to this place.

The memories slip through his fingers. They drift through his mind, pieces of a life that no longer belongs to him. Yet sometimes, his mind grants him flickers of what once was.

Some come shrouded in screams, drowned in the taste of iron on his lips. Others are visions of battlefields where he still marched beneath Mundus’s banner.

Was it Mundus who did this to him?

Sometimes, in the rare moments when his thoughts are sharp enough, he wonders. It would be fitting, a final act of vengeance for a traitor of his own kind. A poetic punishment, if demons believed in poetry. But was it truly Mundus? Or did Sparda bring this upon himself, the consequence of defiance too bold even for him?

He doesn't know. He doesn't remember.

Yet, amid the ruin of his mind, not all fragments are cruel. There are softer ones, flashes of what once might have been. A clear blue sky, impossibly bright. Laughter, calling his name as though it meant something.

Was that person important to him?

Sometimes, when his consciousness claws its way to the surface, he swears he can hear it. The faint rhythm of two hearts beating close to his chest. So small, so delicate.

He doesn’t remember who they belonged to. Only that they mattered more than anything else he ever had.

But those sounds fade like everything else. His body long ago surrendered the fight. Whatever force claimed him has made him its own. The pain that once tore through him has dulled into something distant. Only sometimes, when the agony flares again, does he awaken, if only to look upon the reality of his existence.

Blood-red vines coil around his limbs and chest. They pierce his skin and feed, while a pale, light flickers above him like a false sun. Below, he feels the holes where the vines root deep within his flesh.

A cruel symbiosis, the mockery of life itself.

Perhaps this isn’t living at all, perhaps it never was. Maybe he is dead, trapped in a purgatory crafted from his own sins. A quiet, eternal punishment where he can no longer remember the faces of those he hated and loved, nor the sound of his own voice.

He tries to remember what it means to breathe, but even that simple act is lost to him. The fog presses down too heavily, and the fatigue is endless.

How long has he been here?

Days? Weeks? Centuries? Does it even matter anymore?

No, he decides. It doesn’t matter anymore, nothing does.

.

.

.

.

Something is stirring here.

Sparda doesn’t know what it is. He only feels the shift through the ground, through the roots that bind him. The tangles that feed on him begin to writhe, their rhythm breaking, their hunger quickening. And oh, they are furious. He can feel their anger in the way they pulse tighter around his chest, as if to remind him that he is theirs.

Sparda doesn’t know what has provoked them, but his mind is too clouded, too far gone to care.

And yet... something has awakened within him. Something warmer than the cold parasite that sustains him. It is small at first, somewhere deep inside the ruin of his chest. Then it grows, sharp, it crawls through his veins like molten gold, igniting what remains of his flesh. It sears his nerves, rips through dead tissue, reawakens the pain he thought had long died.

Oh, this is agony again.

It hurts so much, he wants it to stop. Whoever has come, whoever has awakened this torment, let them leave. There is nothing here worth saving. Nothing left of Sparda, not really. Only a corpse that refuses to die.

Then he hears it.

“Come on, don’t do this to me now.”

The sound tears through the haze. He doesn’t understand them all, they were desperate, trembling. They sound as if they were spoken underwater. But something about that voice…

It’s familiar. It’s something that belongs to him, something kin. Instinct screams that this voice belongs to someone he should remember, someone who mattered.

And then fire.

A rush of heat, the smell of burning vines. Screams, his own or the creature’s, he cannot tell. His body reacts before his mind does, muscles spasming violently as if trying to flee the pain. And before he can stop himself, he’s rising.

A mistake.

The vines do not release him. They tear, his flesh tears with them. Layers of skin, veins, and muscle rip apart with sickening resistance. He can feel himself peeling from the ground, his body half-fused to the earth, as if this place refuses to let him go.

Sparda’s scream shatters the silence.

His wings do not answer him. They hang uselessly, heavy with rot. He can’t stop the cry that escapes him. Then gravity wins. His body collapses forward, slamming against the ground with a wet, dull sound.

Air rushes into his chest. His lungs seize, struggling to remember what to do with breath after so long without it.

He chokes.

The ground beneath him is slick with his blood, or whatever passes for it now. His vision flickers between red and white light, and for a heartbeat, he sees the world around him. Weird shapes, gray, dry ground beneath him, vague outlines of walls of roots.

Then footsteps, someone approaches.

Sparda tries to lift his head, but the effort costs him too much. His body refuses to obey, his vision already dimming. Darkness closes in again, but this time... this time he can breathe.

The sky was blue, unmarred by cloud. The air was clean with the scent of summer and the hum of distant cicadas. He leaned against a great oak, its shadow cool against his skin. His fingers brushed lazily through the grass.

“Sparda, my love... dinner is ready.” The voice was soft.

Sparda turned his head toward it, heart stirring at the sound. The sunlight burned bright through the leaves, and for a heartbeat, he almost saw her face, then everything dissolved.

.

.

.

When Sparda opened his eyes again, the first thing he felt was movement. The air was heavy with ash and the metallic scent of blood. His body rocked rhythmically. Then he realized he was being carried.

His first instinct was to fight. His body twitched, a growl clawing up his throat, but it came out weak. “Oh.” Said a voice above him. “You're awake?” Sparda blinked. His vision swam in and out of focus. The figure carrying him was a demon, that much was certain.

The demon turned its head slightly, and Sparda saw two burning red orbs in place of eyes, but they weren’t cruel. Cautious, yes, maybe even curious.

Sparda stared at the demon’s back and started studied the demon’s shape, humanoid, tall but not monstrous, wings streaked in black and crimson. It was smaller than a normal demon of this race. Is this still a youngling? No, the aura is burned too sharply and hot. Perhaps this is a runt, perhaps something else entirely.

Why hasn't this thing killed him?

His kind had sworn vengeance ages ago. For his betrayal, for turning his sword against the throne of Hell. Every devil worth its fangs should have sought to tear him apart the moment they found him.

Sparda shifted, muscles trembling with the effort. The demon’s wings flexed around him, pinning him down. “Easy there.” The demon said, noticing his struggle. “You’re in no shape to fight, old man.” The tone was half mocking, half... worried? It was impossible to tell.

Sparda wanted to growl, to snarl, to remind this creature who he was. But when he opened his mouth, no sound came, only a dry rasp. He tried to lift his hand and froze. Human fingers, pale skin. The faint trace of familiar purple fabric against his side. He was in his human form.

His body must have reverted, unable to sustain anything else in its current, broken state. That, more than anything, unsettled him.

Why was he still alive?

He could feel how fragile he was. It would be easy, so easy for the demon to finish him. Was this demon taking him to his death? A public execution, perhaps one last spectacle for hell’s amusement? That would make sense.

Sparda tensed again, gathering what little strength he had left. His hand twitched toward the demon’s throat-

“Relax.” The demon muttered without looking back, as though reading his thoughts. “You’re safe or as safe as you can be.” Something deep in Sparda’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t know this demon. Not in the slightest, but his instincts tell him otherwise.

He wanted to ask. Who are you? Why help me? But the words tangled in his throat before they could form. The world tilted, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. Sparda wanted to stay awake, but the strength was gone.

His last thought before the dark took him was that blue sky again and the soft voice calling him home.

Chapter Text

The room was dim. The only light came from the pale moon spilling through the window and the faint orange glow from the hallway beyond the door. Sparda stood in the center of the room, his head bowed slightly. The faint creak of the cradle beneath his fingers was the only sound.

“Honey?” A soft, melodic voice said from behind him. “It’s late, leave our boys alone.” Eva stood at the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, her arms folded lightly across her chest. Her golden hair caught the light, a warm halo against the room.

“In a moment, my love.” Sparda said without looking away from the cradle. His hand continued its slow motion against the cradle. Eva let out a small laugh. “I know you rarely sleep.” She said, teasing affection in her tone. “But are you really going to stand guard here all night?”

He smiled faintly. “Rest is.... unnecessary.” He replied. “Especially when I have something worth watching over.”

“Mmhm.” She stepped into the room, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. One hand came to rest against his chest while the other brushed the edge of the cradle. Her eyes softened when she looked down.

Two infants, not even a year old, lay curled together beneath a thin blanket. The moonlight touched their tiny faces, revealing the faint shimmer of white hair crowning their heads. Each child’s small hand had found the other’s, one tiny finger resting against the other’s lips in unconscious comfort.

Eva smiled. “They even sleep like they’re mirroring each other.” She whispered. Sparda’s eyes lingered on them. “You created something... miraculous, Eva.” He said softly. “We created them.” She corrected gently, resting her head against his chest.

Sparda’s eyes softened. In his world, offspring of his race were rare, almost impossible. The higher the demon’s rank, the less chance of new life. So when offspring were born, it was a cause for celebration, an omen, a blessing.

Yet... somehow, he and Eva had succeeded in creating a new life... two lives, actually. Two perfect, little miracles. “Their existence...” He murmured. “Is more than I ever thought I’d deserve.” Eva tilted her head up to look at him. “Don’t start that again.” He chuckled faintly. “I only mean-”

She pressed a finger to his lips. “No, not tonight.” He covered her hand with his own. “You always could silence me.” He said quietly. “Someone has to.” She replied with a playful smirk. “Come on.” She murmured. “The last thing we want is to wake them. They’ll have you up all night if you do.”

Sparda looked back down at the cradle. One of the twins stirred, a tiny whimper escaping as their hand brushed the other’s cheek. His instinct flared. His muscles tightened, ready to protect, to destroy anything that disturbed them.

Eva noticed, gently placing her hand on his arm. “It’s all right.” She whispered. “They’re dreaming.” Sparda hesitated for a moment before finally nodding. “Very well.” He whispered and slowly released the cradle’s edge.

He turned to leave. The door remained ajar behind them, the room glowing faintly in silver and amber. Sparda turned back one last time, unable to help himself. “They’ll be safe.” Eva said softly from the hall.

“Tomorrow morning, s̷̝̾h̶̗̉h̵͎̅ḩ̵͛h̵̖͊h̴̥̊s̵͖͌h̷̥̏s̷̟͐h̵͖̿h̴̦̕s̷͖̑h̸̏ will still be there.”

Sparda frowned, blinking. “What did you say?” He asked softly. Eva tilted her head. “I said-” But the rest never came. The light from the hall flickered, and when he turned toward her voice, there was nothing.

“Eva?” He called, his voice suddenly sharp. No answer, the hallway was gone, swallowed whole by the dark. His pulse quickened, twins. He had to check the children, he needed to see them. He rushed back inside, the air colder now. He could see the cradle’s outline, but the light no longer touched it.

“Boys?” His voice shook. He reached the cradle and looked down- Empty. No breath, no warmth, no tiny hands, just darkness.

“What-” Sparda’s voice cracked. His mind scrambled to remember, to grasp their names, the ones he had spoken with such pride. He knew them, he had to.

Why couldn’t he remember? The harder he tried, the further the names slipped from him. Why just why, why couldn't he-

Sparda woke up.

His first breath tore through his lungs like hot glass ready to break. He gasped, the air searing its way down his throat, leaving him trembling. His body screamed at him the moment he tried to move. Every nerve burned, every muscle ached as if they were trying to remind him how many years they had been unused.

His eyes shot open. Sweat slicked his skin, his heart thudded erratically- Where were they?

Where were his boys? Where was Eva? He must-

Sparda’s chest heaved, he drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing his gaze upward. His vision steadied on the jagged stone above him. A cave, he was in a cave. He tried to remember why he was here? Who had brought him?

He tried to turn his head, but pain shot through his neck and spine. A hoarse groan escaped his throat before he could stop it. He shifted again, slower this time. His head came to rest on something soft. He blinked the material beneath him was dark red, almost maroon, and the texture... leather.

A jacket, maybe a coat, folded beneath his head like a pillow. The faint crackle of fire reached him next, the warmth brushing across his face. He turned his head slightly, just enough to see the glow. A few steps away, a small campfire burned low, the flames flickering with uneven light, and next to it a silhouette.

At first glance, the silhouette seemed human, sitting casually, one arm resting across a bent knee. For a fleeting moment, Sparda thought he had gone completely mad. Humans couldn't live here or even survive here.

But before he could ponder further, the figure shifted slightly, and Sparda stiffened. That aura... yes, he knew it. The same presence he had felt before losing consciousness. The same one that had torn the parasitic vines from his flesh.

“I see you've awakened again.” The voice was calm, human in tone. The stranger has silver-white hair catching the firelight in faint glints. Sparda tried to respond, but the only sound that came out was a harsh cough.

“Yeah, I know.” The stranger murmured, standing and stepping closer. “Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” He crouched beside Sparda. “But look on the bright side.” He continued with a faint smirk. “You’re not dead.”

Sparda managed a faint, bitter exhale that might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t half-dead. The stranger reached for something beside him, a rough stone bowl filled with water. “I know demons don’t usually need this.” He said, his tone almost teasing. “But you look like you do.”

Sparda tried to shake his head, but before he could muster resistance, the bowl was lifted to his lips. “Drink.” The stranger said quietly. “You’ve got a fever. It won’t fix much, but it’ll help.”

Sparda hesitated, his jaw tightened. Trust was not something he gave easily, especially not to one of his own kind and certainly not to someone strong enough to kill him yet patient enough not to. “It’s just water.” The stranger added, softer now, almost coaxing. “I promise it won’t hurt you.”

Sparda forced his eyes open wider, meeting the other’s gaze for the first time. Blue, a piercing blue, bright even in the dim light of the cave. For an instant, Sparda’s heart stuttered. He knew those eyes, not their shape, not their age, but something in them.

He didn’t know why, but he trusted them.

He parted his lips. The stranger lifted his head slightly and tilted the bowl, letting the water run slowly. The first sip burned. His throat convulsed, coughing up half the water before it could reach his stomach.

The stranger immediately pulled back, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “Easy.” The stranger murmured quickly. “Slowly, everything’s alright.” When Sparda’s coughing subsided, he tried again. This time, the water went down more smoothly. It was lukewarm, probably left near the fire for a while.

He drank deeply, cleansing the feeling of ash that he felt in his throat. When the bowl was empty, he exhaled shakily, his chest rising and falling with uneven rhythm. “See? Not so bad.” The stranger said quietly, a trace of satisfaction in his voice, and gently adjusted the coat beneath Sparda’s head, lowering it so the older demon could rest more comfortably.

Sparda’s gaze lingered on him, trying to piece together the puzzle in front of him. “You.…” The stranger looked down at him, one brow lifting. “Me what?” But exhaustion pressed down on him. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The faint warmth of the fire reached him now, mixing with the steady rhythm of the stranger’s breathing.

“Rest.” The stranger murmured. “We’ve got time before we move again. And believe me, you’ll need your strength.” Sparda’s mind blurred, the darkness claimed him again.

This time, Sparda dreamed of nothing and woke up to the faint, acrid taste of ash clinging to his lips. The air burned him from the inside out. His body was drenched in sweat, yet his skin was tight and dry.

He tilted his head forward, as if that small motion could somehow help him breathe, it didn’t. His fingers clawed weakly at the dirt beneath him, feeling it crumble, grit pressing beneath his nails.

“Hey, hey, easy.” The voice broke through the haze of fever. Sparda ignored it, he couldn’t focus on the sound. Everything was heat and pressure. His head pounded, he tried to turn toward the voice, forcing his neck to obey, but each movement sent his stomach twisting.

“Stop.” The voice said again, closer now, more urgent. “You’re burning up. Just- just hold still-” Sparda’s mouth opened, but no words came. Then suddenly he felt the contact. Flesh, warm, alive. Against his teeth, his instincts reacted faster than thought. His jaw clenched, and he bit down.

A sharp hiss of pain filled the air above him. The stranger hadn’t expected that much strength from him. The taste of blood followed instantly, metallic and hot as it spilled onto his tongue. At first, it was desperation, he hadn’t fed in so long. His throat worked greedily, his hands twitching as he swallowed.

The power in the blood hit him almost immediately, undeniably demonic. This was no weakling’s blood. Whoever he was feeding from was strong, perhaps stronger than most of his kind had any right to be.

But then, beneath the demonic energy, something else crept in. Sparda froze, he tasted again, slower and his stomach twisted. The copper tang shifted, the faint sweetness that only human blood carried.

He is drinking human blood.

His eyes shot open, his breath catching in his chest. He pulled back so sharply he nearly wrenched his own neck. He spat, the copper clinging stubbornly to his tongue. He coughed, tried again, spitting into the dirt until the saliva came clear, trembling as he did. Rage and shame warred in his chest.

He had sworn never to taste human blood again. The last time he’d fed on a human had been centuries ago, before betrayal, before he’d learned restraint, before he’d learned what it meant to love something fragile.

He thought the memory of it had been buried, erased by time and guilt. But the moment the taste hit his tongue, it all came rushing back. A growl tore itself from his throat of self-disgust. He tried to rise, to confront whoever had dared feed him such a thing, but his body refused. Every muscle locked, trembling with exhaustion.

Something wet brushed his cheek. He flinched, expecting another wound, but it was gentle, wiping the sweat from his face. “Shhh.” The voice whispered. “Go back to sleep.” Sparda wanted to protest, to reject the command, but his body had already started to obey.

His eyelids fluttered, through the haze, he caught one last image before darkness reclaimed him. The stranger hunched near the fire, one arm pressed tightly against his bare forearm, blood seeping between his fingers.

A soft groan escaped this stranger, almost stifled before he adjusted his position and let out a shaky breath. Sparda’s mind tried to process it, but before his thoughts could form into words, sleep dragged him under again.

Chapter Text

The throne room was quiet. It's always quiet.

The only times that stillness broke were on days of ceremony, when the Princes of Hell gathered to kneel, or when Mundus himself chose to remind them all of their place. Sparda stood where he always stood, beside the throne.

His hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the massive doors ahead. His mind was empty, he did not think, he did not wonder, he only waited.

Until he heard it, a sound that did not belong here.

Laughter.

Children’s laughter, bright and impossibly pure. Sparda’s head turned before he realized it, his gaze sweeping the room. The sound echoed faintly and then died as suddenly as it had begun, swallowed by the silence once more.

“Sparda.” The voice beside him was smooth, almost lazy. Sparda immediately lowered his head, bowing slightly. A cold hand gripped his jaw, forcing his face upward. Mundus’s expression was that same smug blend of pride and possessiveness. The same look he had worn the day he named Sparda his favored knight.

“You seem distracted.” Mundus murmured, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Tell me, my knight, you would never betray me, would you?” Sparda didn’t answer, not yet. He knew better, he spoke only when permitted.

Then, once again, that laughter returned. His head turned toward the massive doors. For a split second, he saw something, a flicker of white hair. Two small figures darting past the threshold.

“Sparda.” Mundus’s tone sharpened, cutting through the moment. His hand tightened, claws digging into Sparda’s cheek. “Answer my question, servant.”

Sparda’s throat tightened. He wanted to answer, the response had been burned repeatedly into his tongue ages ago. “Never, my lord.” But the words never came. Something twisted inside him. The sound of his master’s voice suddenly felt distant, muffled. The world around him seemed to blur at the edges.

This wasn’t right, he shouldn’t be here.

His body moved before thought could catch up. His hand shot to the hilt of his sword, and in the next instant, steel met air as he tore himself free of Mundus’s grasp. “Sparda!” The name rang out like a curse.

But Sparda was already moving, sprinting toward the great doors, his wings flaring in reflex. The throne room erupted in howls of fury behind him, the air splitting with Mundus’s rage. “You’ll regret this, traitor!”

The hall stretched on and on, and at the very end, two small silhouettes. Two boys, they turned when they saw him, and his heart clenched. Silver hair caught the faint light. One raised a hand and waved innocently.

“Father!” One of them called, the voice distant but clear, uncorrupted by this place. “Wait!” Sparda shouted, his voice breaking as he ran. He sprinted faster, his feet pounding the endless marble floor. But the harder he ran, the further they seemed. The hall bent and warped, its edges melting.

The boys only laughed, their hands reaching for him, and then the corridor began to burn. “Your family will regret this, Sparda!” Mundus’s voice roared again, this time everywhere. Fire erupted around him. The floor cracked open, the corridor crumbled into ash, but still Sparda ran.

He could see them again, just ahead, standing now in the doorway of a home he recognized too well. Eva’s laughter echoed faintly beyond the flames. But the fire roared, swallowing the world whole.

And the last thing he saw before the light consumed him was the image of his house collapsing into flame and the silhouettes of his family vanishing within it.

He reached out, screaming and woke up.

Sparda’s eyes shot open.

Air tore through his throat as he gasped. His body convulsed, forcing him upright before his mind could catch up. The world tilted violently, his legs trembled beneath him, refusing to hold, but rage alone kept him standing.

Mundus.

That name tore through his skull. Something had happened, he’d done something to them. Mundus had done something to his family. Sparda didn’t know how he knew, but he felt it in his bones, in the pit of his gut.

Sparda’s pulse pounded in his ears as memories and hallucinations bled together. He had to get back, he had to protect them. He needed to know what had happened. Pain flared across his skull, a sharp pressure that made his vision blur. He staggered, clutching his head.

“Hey! Hey- relax. It was just a bad dream.” The tone was calm but far too close. The words barely reached him. His vision snapped toward the source, and instinct took over. Sparda spun, teeth bared, muscles flaring despite their weakness.

His hand was already cutting through the air in a violent strike, but the stranger caught his wrist. “Whoa- hey, easy! Nothing’s-” Sparda didn’t let him finish. The strength in him was pure adrenaline. He lunged, tackling the stranger to the ground.

Sparda’s knee pinned the stranger’s chest, his hand wrapping tightly around the other’s throat. The other man grunted, his breath catching, yet he didn’t fight back. He simply met Sparda’s gaze. “Hey...” The stranger rasped, his voice calm despite the pressure on his neck. “It’s... okay.”

Sparda’s breathing was ragged, his teeth bared. The world around him was still half-warped by nightmare. Mundus’s laughter blends with echoes of children’s voices. He didn’t know where he was anymore. He didn’t know who this was. All he knew was that every nerve screamed danger.

“Listen to me.... You’re safe.” The word rang hollow in Sparda’s ears. His grip only tightened, his claws digging faintly into skin. “Fath-” The stranger rasped through clenched teeth. “Daa- Da-”

But Sparda couldn’t hear him. His vision blurred, spots of light dancing in the edges of his sight. The heat in his body rose again, consuming him, twisting through him until every breath came out as a growl.

And then... something changed.

A vibration beneath his hand. At first, he thought it was just the tremor of his own rage, but it deepened, it was a sound.

Sparda blinked in confusion. The sound rolled through his palm and into his chest, unmistakably demonic, yet not threatening. What was this? A defense mechanism? A trick? No, his instincts whispered otherwise. This was no threat, this was something... familiar.

A nestling’s purr?

But that made no sense. The stranger’s energy was too mature, a demon well past infancy. And yet, that soft, rhythmic sound reached a primal place in Sparda’s chest, tugging at some memory he couldn’t name.

His hand slackened, the purr didn’t stop. Sparda’s fury dimmed, burned out by confusion and exhaustion. His limbs trembled, his breathing slowed, and before he realized it, his grip fell away entirely.

“Easy...” The stranger whispered, carefully sitting up and catching Sparda as his weight sagged forward. “You’re burning up again.” Sparda wanted to snarl, to tell him not to touch him, but his body had already given up. His strength had fled, and his consciousness was slipping once more.

He dimly felt himself being lowered back to the ground, something soft tucked beneath his head again. “It’s okay.” The stranger coughed once, rubbing his throat. “It’s alright.” The stranger murmured. His voice had softened now. “You’re safe. Just... breathe.”

Sparda’s chest rose and fell, uneven but slowing. “Shh...” The stranger continued, his hand steady against Sparda’s shoulder. “It’s okay. You just... need to rest, alright? Your fever’s still burning through you.”

The words bled together in Sparda’s ears. He could barely see the figure now, just a blur framed by the glow of the campfire. The stranger was still there, sitting beside him, rubbing absently at his throat, his blue eyes catching the firelight. “I’m not your enemy.” He whispered.

Sparda tried to reply, but only a broken exhale escaped him. The pull of unconsciousness was too strong this time.